


joining

by murgamurg



Series: things wont change until we do [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Reunions, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8086498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: it's been three years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> unedited, unbeta'd.

She's poring over the regional map with the King of Ferelden. It's just the two of them in the war room, discussing Hawke's warden revelations with intent. The king seems especially invested in this expedition, being a warden himself, and the Inquisitor analyzes him with her large, elvhen eyes.

He reminds her of Cullen almost, the way he holds himself with a slight swagger, the confidence in each shift of his step. But the similarities end there-- where shems are concerned, Lavellan isn't too great at subtleties. Yet Alistair has a brash and glib nature that she could never fathom from the Inquisition's commander. This king has a presence unique and all his own, and she finds she is rather fond of this bumbling, young king in the way one befriends a loyal, slobbering mabari. It's the complete opposite of how she regards Cullen. The commander is an equal and has an objective perspective she admires. He is a logical and balancing force rather than something unpredictable, like the ruddy freckles of the regent before her. 

Though Alistair is young, he fills his role well. His strategic mind shows as he aids her in planning the assault on the Western Approach, asking questions she herself hadn't thought relevant. Of course, as far as young regents go, she's not really one to speak. She's barely of any age herself. 

Josie's voice raises from outside the room, and Lavellan's head perks up towards the door. There are loud, metallic boots against Skyhold's stone flooring, a gruff voice barking back at her ambassador. A woman's, she thinks, and she prepares herself to berate the intruder for being so rude-- before the door bursts open.

The elf that storms through is indeed a woman, in heavy plate with a scowl deep enough to rival Cassandra's. Black eyes lock onto Lavellan's, mouth forming her name in a command, until she stops short at the sight of the Inquisitor's company.

"Hero of Ferelden!" Lavellan smiles wide and toothy in spite of herself, cheeks pinching up against her eyes. She's always been quite fond of Tabris, this gruff and grizzled warrior who puts up with her endless questions and regales her with tales of the Fifth Blight. But the bewildered look on Tabris's face is something new. Lavellan has never known Tabris to be afraid, even in their months of continuous contact, and though this isn't quite fear she's willing to bet this is as close as Tabris comes to it. 

Josephine throws her hands up in disgust, jabbing an exasperated glare over Tabris's shoulder before retreating to her desk. Lavellan glances at Alistair. His face mirrors the warden-commander's, at best.

The Inquisitor is immediately uneasy. 

"You... are familiar with his majesty?" She asks the Warden-Commander, hedging her bets against the thick silence.

Tabris's face is unreadable. A blank mask of absolute control, borderline disinterest. She swallows, black eyes flicking from the king's face to Lavellan's. "Didn't I tell you, Herald? We ended the fifth blight together."

Alistair clears his throat. Lavellan raises an eyebrow because he too-- he too is masked despite his wide eyes, locked on the woman across the room. 

"Indeed. We did," the King reassures, but his eyes don't leave the Warden-Commander's face. "Have you, um--" his voice cracks. "Have you been here long?" He asks her, and Lavellan doesn't understand his strained tone. His knuckles are white against the live edge of the Inquisition's war table. 

"Not very," is all Tabris replies. It’s a lie, but Lavellan says nothing. Tabris sets her sharp jaw, nods to the Inquisitor. "Excuse me, Herald. We can chat later," she croaks, and removes herself, door slamming shut behind her.

The tension bleeds from the room (but not the king) following her departure. Lavellan is not blind to what this means.

"Are you alright?" She inquires, concerned eyes turning back to the king's face. His eyes are closed now, hands clenched into fists. "If there's a problem I can--"

He waves a hand on dismissal. "No no, it's perfectly fine. We  _ are  _ friends, actually, despite all appearances." A deep breath and his posture relaxes, his fists again only hands resting upon the table.

"That didn't seem very friendly," she presses. There's something he's not telling her. 

"Yes, well. I might have thought she was dead. I also might need to have a very loud conversation with your spymaster."

The King shakes his head, eyes focusing again on the map. "Now, the issue with troop movements, you said?"

Lavellan takes a deep breath. It's obvious the king wants to move on; pick up where they left off. "Yes, Adamant fortress was the place Stroud indicated..."

\---

The low candlelight roams over Lavellan's vallaslin, glittering off the spectrum of bottles she has stored here. She's always loved the cellar, it's cool dampness reminding her of nights spent hunting in the fields outside of wycome. There was a river she would love to sit near, listen to the babble, feel the cool spray upon her face as she waited for deer to come and drink their fill.

There's a bottle of conscription ale on the shelf-- Riordain's, the label says. She fingers it, turning it over. Perhaps she could crack it open and seek out Tabris to share a glass; she owes the woman that much. And according to her stories, Riordain had been a friend. 

Dull voices float to her from down the hall. From the tone, they appear to be shouting.

Lavellan fingers the bottle, pacing her steps to be soundless. She rounds the corner and approaches the noise, only to be surprised in recognizing Alistair's voice. 

"--and not even a letter! It's been three years, Tab!" He shouts. There's a wet sound in his timbre, like he's on the verge of crying. 

"I know," Tabris replies, hoarse, like she's been yelling for hours. "I'm sorry."

"I just don't understand," he said, quieter, surely crying now. "Why? What could possibly--" he takes in a  sharp breath. "Maker, I missed you so much,"

"Damnit, Alistair," Tabris said, more emotion than Lavellan had ever heard from the city elf. "Damn it, damn you. Damn the Maker. It's warden business, of course it was."

When Alistair spoke next it was barely more than a whisper, and Lavellan had to press her ear against the door to hear it. 

"I thought you'd gone to the deep roads," he said. "Without me."

She clutches the neck of the bottle tight in her hand. She knew there had been more to the interaction in the war room, but she'd never guessed it was something like this. 

"I was--" Tabris chokes. "I was investigating the Calling, you buffoon. Not just the one in Orlais-- Trying to end it, maybe. So we could have more time, so we could--"

And then there's silence, quiet smacking, what Lavellan  _ suspects _ is the quiet touch of lips on lips. 

"I love you," Alistair says, and Lavellan covers her mouth. "I love you, and don't you ever do that again," he says, another kiss. 

A moment of smacks, and heavy panting so loud that Lavellan can hear it through the door, and then a moan, one that could have only come from Tabris but Lavellan can't believe that a woman of her constant stoic demeanor could ever make and then--

And then there's a crash and the King's guttural grunt and gasps and sighs from them both, and Lavellan turns on a silent heel, padding back the way she came.

Illicit royal affair or not, she’s contented in knowing she's helped two people find each other, in such a time of conflict. A small smile works itself across her lips-- mischief at how they will seem around each other now, for surely this has been a long running affair. She wonders if Josephine knows. 

She places the bottle back on the shelf before ascending the stairs. Perhaps Riordain's whiskey can wait for another night.


End file.
